Drowning
by Chrysalide
Summary: Over flashes of green and falling bodies was the thought that the most precious being in the world to them expected to be picked up by eight, fed his warm milk by eight ten, and put to sleep by nine. Lily could not will herself to break this comfort.


"Drowning"

James had been so busy with Harry – getting him safely to old Bathilda's, strengthening the protective charms around the witch's house even though they'd been cast by Dumbledore himself, attempting all sorts of goofs and funny charmwork to say goodbye to Harry without leaving him wailing (just in case something happened, the last thing his son would see of him would not be clouded by tears) – that Lily simply, out of love, did not tell him.

That night she had made three batches of potion – just like Harry – and every time her drop of blood would turn the potion bright blue. Positive. Just like Harry. She sat on the toilet seat, numb and unwilling to think, for the longest time.

Over flashes of green and falling bodies there had been the thought, ever-present, that the most precious being in the world to them was safe and expected to be picked up by eight, fed his warm milk by eight-fifteen, and put to sleep by nine thirty. It was a spiderweb of comfort, they both knew, but it gave them incalculable strength when they entered the fray of battle.

For both their sakes, Lily forbade herself from snatching the spiderweb and crushing it between her hands. Had James known he would have flung himself in front of every curse, forgotten any sense of self-preservation. Another precious being...in battle? With Voldemort swerving around them, sometimes even confronting them head-on? It had cost enough for him to accept that Lily – Precious Being #2 and Most Beautiful Creature in the Cosmos – could die and he could live.

A life without her – the thought itself was like staring at a beggar in the last stages of despair, bruised and filthy, foot swollen in pus and rotting skin: the pitiable manifestation of what his soul would whither into. But he would face it – drown every wish of death and nonexistence in the stagnant waters of his heart – if only for Harry. For his boy. His precious being.

Now she bore another precious being, and all she did was cast some hidden charms around her womb, say some prayers before falling asleep with two hours to sunrise. She felt contaminated by too much determination, the will to love and protect vacuumed out of her against her will.

Crossing the village plaza in the chill of morning, Lily tried again to convince herself. Announcing her current state to the Order would do no good. Voldemort was to target London, some part of it bustling with Muggle interference. The battle was meant to be epic, decisive, so vicious that in the chaos both muggles and wizard civilians were expected to fall. Muggles and civilians. In the face of the possible pain of others, she had to put aside her own fears. No single member could be spared.

Before Disapparating James pulled Lily close, forehead-to-forehead, only long enough to feel her breath expire softly upon his face. The darkness compressed them. Out of the strain between love and duty, Lily felt the whimper cut her throat, a beg to turn back. She drowned it. She held James close – his heart thumping like drums in a frenzied orgy – and drowned it.

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The blue-and-white tiles of their little bathroom stared at her from the wall opposite to the one she had slid down on, and against which she was currently propped. No matter how coldly she wiped and rubbed and poured more soap, there was a little shadow of crimson on the underwear that refused to disappear.

She was convinced that Bellatrix had seen the added speck of fear in her eyes, and had aimed to shatter the cause of it. The Death Eater must have thought she was doing a hell of a favor. Maybe she was.

In the end, the war would drown everything.

James was in the room adjacent, having offered for Harry's bedtime. As she passed the crib room sunk in the grey darkness of the broom-shaped lamp, Lily saw him hug his child in a dual gentleness and desperation, trying to imprint the physical memory of his love.

She had drowned the little wail on her throat then, but now she took up one of the vanilla-scented towels stacked beside her and gave a long, agonizing moan into its thick fibers. She was hoarse, as if all the screaming she had done on the inside had taken a toll on her body.

He heard. He had slid into the room silently, her muffled anguish defeating his purpose of letting her come to him before helping out. In a beat he had opened the bathroom door and knelt inches before her.

"What is it?" he begged, two fingers resting on her cheek, performing nonsensical circles over the tear trails. He kissed her close to the ear, and his warm breath shook everything inside her, so that she registered the imbedded "Tell me" of his voice a few seconds later.

He would understand. He would put the bowl and cloth aside and cradle her as she sobbed. The Dementor coldness of the room would draw back at the strength of his arms. Anger was nonexistent when the pieces of Lily needed to be put together. He would drown his own pain – his frustration (shouting at the rain for it to stop and having lightning crash at his feet as an answer) – for the time being.

It was either speak or see the beggar of her soul rise like bile, shatter everything.

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The piece was rather thought-oriented, something I had never tried before. Feedback on whether or not I pulled it off would be great Thanks for reading!


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